Ask the Parrot

shaking his head. “But no. Take my car. Just drive away.”

“Right into their arms,” Parker said. “Look at me, Tom.”

Reluctantly Lindahl looked up.

Parker said, “Do you want me to think you’re trouble, Tom?”

Lindahl frowned, looking at him, then his eyes shifted away and he shook his head. “No.”

“So you’ll loan me a coat and a pair of boots. And you want the Ruger or the Marlin?”

6

The red and black wool coat was loose, but the lace-up boots fit well. Parker carried the Marlin, a thirty-four-inch-long single-shot rifle weighing six and a half pounds, with a five-shot tubular magazine. They put both rifles on the floor behind the front seat and drove away from Pooley, not the way they’d come in. They’d gone about six miles when they reached the first roadblock, two state police cars narrowing the road to one lane, cars and troopers sharply sketched in the late afternoon October sunlight against the dark surrounding woods.

As they slowed, Parker said, “You’ll talk.”

“I know.”

The trooper who bent to Lindahl’s open window was an older man, heavyset, taken off desk duty for this emergency and not happy about it. Lindahl told him his name and his membership in Hickory Rod and Gun, and that they were on their way to St. Stanislas to join the search.

The trooper stepped back to look in the rear side window at the rifles on the floor and said, “Whole county’s filling up with untrained men with guns. Not how I’d do it, but nobody asked me. You got your membership card?”

“In the Rod and Gun Club? Sure.” Reaching for his wallet, Lindahl sounded sheepish as he said, “It’s a little out of date.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the trooper said. “Doesn’t have a photo, anyway.” He nodded at the card Lindahl showed him, without taking it, and said, “Leave it on the dashboard so if you’re stopped again they’ll know who you are.”

“Good idea.” Lindahl put his membership card on top of the dashboard where it could be seen through the windshield.

The trooper, sour but resigned, stepped back and said, “Okay, go ahead.”

“Thank you, sir.”

They drove on, through hilly country, still mostly forested, many of the trees now changing to their fall colors, crimson and russet and gold. There were apple orchards, darkly red, and scruffy fields where dairy cows had once grazed, now mostly vacant, though here and there were groups of horses or sheep or even llamas. The houses were few and old and close to the ground.

They climbed awhile, the road switching back and forth through the partly tamed forest, then came to a town with a sign reading St. Stanislas and a steep main street. What they were headed for was not a church, but an old Grange Hall, its clapboard sides painted a medium brown too many years ago, with the metal signs of half a dozen fraternal organizations on stakes along the roadside out front.

A dozen cars were already in the parking lot beside the building, and Lindahl put the Ford in with them. They got their rifles, then walked over to where a group of men milled around the closed front door. They were mostly over fifty, hefty and soft, and they moved with checked-in excitement.

Lindahl knew all of these people, though it was clear he hadn’t seen any of them for some time. They were pleased to see him, if not excited, and pleased to meet Parker as well, introduced as an old friend of Lindahl’s here on a visit.

Parker shook hands with the smiling men who were hunting him, and then a state police car arrived and two uniformed men got out, the younger one an ordinary trooper, the older one with extra braid and insignia on his uniform and hat.

This is the one who went up on the steps leading to the Grange Hall and turned around to say, “I want to thank you gentlemen for coming out today. We have two very dangerous men somewhere in our part of the world, and it’s an act of good citizenship to help find them and put them under control. You’ve all heard on the television the crime they committed. They didn’t kill anybody, but they caused a great deal of property damage and put three armored- car employees in the hospital. The weapons they used are banned in the United States. We don’t know if they’re still carrying those weapons, or if they might have others as well. We do know they were armed and are extremely dangerous. We ask that no one go off by himself, but always have at least one other person from your group in sight. If you come across one or both of these fugitives, do not try to apprehend them yourselves. These are professional criminals, desperate men facing long prison sentences, and they have no reason not to shoot you down if you get in their way. If you believe you’ve found them, get that information to us or to some other authority at the earliest possible moment. Try to keep them in sight, and do not under any circumstances exchange gunfire with them. Trooper Oskott has artist’s drawings of the two men that we’ll pass among you, and then your club president, Ben Weiser, will describe to you the area we’d like you to patrol. Ben?”

Ben Weiser was a man in his sixties, as overweight as most of the rest of them, with absolutely no hair on the top of his head but very long gray hair down the sides and back, covering his ears and his collar, so that he looked like a retired cavalry scout. As Trooper Oskott moved among the group, handing out sheets of copy paper, Weiser said, “It’s nice to see just about everybody here, and even an extra volunteer, Ed Smith over there, brought to us by Tom Lindahl, so I guess that makes up for all the times Tom didn’t show up. Glad you’re here, Tom. Welcome to Hickory Rod and Gun Club, Ed.”

Parker took the two sheets the trooper handed him and looked at them while Weiser went on being folksy and another man went into the Grange Hall and came back out with an easel that he set up on the top step. The drawing of himself he’d seen before, on the television set in the diner before the law had arrived, attracted by his rental car. Nobody in the diner had looked from the screen to this customer among them and said, “There he is!” and nobody here in front of the Grange Hall turned to say, “Ed? Isn’t this you?”